November 25, 1915

“Julius, get the pies out of that oven. They look pretty close to baked. The afternoon crew can put them back in to keep them warm. Take out the middle rack. I seasoned another turkey.  We have a hundred reservations for Thanksgiving dinner. At 75 cents a plate the whole town wants to eat at the Cabin Hotel.”

“I’m on it, Maggie. This makes twenty pies. That should do it.”

“Not if we have a run on mincemeat and apple pies.”

“We have cherry and lemon too. I made 10 fruit cakes and gallons of English plum pudding. Guests can lather up fruit plates with wine and hard sauce. We’re going to Corina’s for dinner. Don’t even think of staying here and working.”

“I know. I’m still going to make more oyster dressing and season up another goose. Maybe I should make more sage dressing too.”

“Maggie!”

“It won’t take long.”

We started preparing yesterday for dinner today. President Woodrow Wilson proclaimed the third Thursday of November a national holiday for thanksgiving and prayer. Never mind, that I read that George Washington, and the Continental Congress ordained the first national Day of Thanksgiving on November 18, 1787. That was a Sunday. I guess everyone wants a day off during the work week. Nonetheless, every business closed in town except for the hotels, and they all prepared feasts.

We started baking this morning before dawn. Charlie spent the morning sleeping in the corner of the Cabin kitchen. He rose occasionally for a drink out of the toilet and looked out the window. Usually, he alternated from beyond patient to terribly demanding and wanting attention. This morning, he remained very calm. He looked up as Maggie took her apron off.

“That should do it,” she said loud enough for all the kitchen staff to hear. “The goose is in the oven. The dressing is ready to bake, if you need it. We’ll be at Corina’s. Call us if it is absolutely necessary.”

I rolled my eyes, took off my apron and grabbed my coat. Charlie jumped up in an instant, ready to walk. I helped Maggie put her coat and hat on, then we started for the door. Before we reached it, Sheriff Chivington entered in front of us and then took off his hat.

Maggie greeted him with, “Good morning Sheriff,” then fumbling for her watch pinned to her dress, she continued, ”I think it’s still morning.”

“It is and good morning.” He turned to me and said, “Julius, I have complaints concerning you and Corina.”

“I can’t imagine from whom,” Maggie snapped sarcastically.

He ignored her and continued, “From her lawful husband and other disreputable characters. I’m legally bound to inform and caution you to stop the public displays of affection with her.”

“Duty noted sir,” I said.

“You are the child’s godfather, act like it. Don’t force my hand with your deeds, I’ll arrest you. The man following you was jilted by his wife and hot to apprehend another adulterer. I want you to pay attention to your actions.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good, now can I get an early Thanksgiving dinner?” He had four quarters in his hand.

“Of course,” Maggie smiled, pulled out a chair at the closest table and waved to a waitress.

“Thank you. Hopefully, it is a slow day for crimes and misdemeanors.” He looked at me. I tipped my hat.

Outside, it was cold, with snow remaining only on the north side of buildings. Charlie, the standard poodle ran ahead several times, rolled in the snow, and then raced back. He occasionally pushed his nose into the soft crust. I lamented missing the blue rock contest this morning at 9 o’clock sponsored by the Steamboat Gun Club. A.M. Gooding Jr. was a member, and I had not seen him for a while. I wondered if he still fished late in the season.

“You can fish and shoot a shotgun another day,” Maggie said. “Did you hear the Moffat Road is canceling the Sunday train until further notice? The last one is this weekend. That seems kind of silly.”

“I guess it makes sense. We have fewer tourists now. Maybe they’ll reinstate it by Winter Carnival.”

“One would hope so.”

At Corina’s house, Charlie ran a grid through the stubble of her garden. “I had sharp tail grouse eating corn on the ground this morning. He smells them.” She shouted from the door, “I’m so happy you both aren’t working this afternoon. Maggie you must come and look at the Hoosier I bought at B.F. Niesz Home Furnishing. It has sanitary removable roll drawers.”

Du Bois handed me a Coors beer, as I entered, saying, “How goes it mate?”

“Very well, I’m glad to be done working. It will be busy at the Cabin today,” I responded while he robustly rubbed behind Charlie’s ears. The dog smiled. He was happy to be with the crowd.

Angela was demonstrating the rolling drawers to Maggie when Corina asked, “Julius, will you please check the turkey?”

I walked to the stove. She declared, “No, it’s on the grill outside.”

“Really?” Maggie replied dumbfounded. “You’re grilling the turkey?”

“I’m baking it with convection heat. I put charcoal round the drip pan and a big lid on top to hold the heat. The breast is down and the wings up, so there will be grill lines on the breast, but the fat melting through will create the juiciest white meat you have every had the pleasure to eat.”

“I’ve seen that technique with chickens in England,” I said.

“I just put the bird on. Julius, make sure it’s not too hot,” she instructed.

The afternoon passed quickly. The girls chatted and cooked. The large poodle and feisty Siamese cat continued their shaky truce. Little Julius slept peacefully, sporadically yawning and falling asleep again. Du Bois and I played cribbage, nibbled on finger food, and drank beer. Intermittently the girls would kibitz while looking at our cards. Finally, Corina said, “Finish your game, it’s time to set the table.”

Dried flower arrangements mixed with glowing candles, gravy boats, and baskets of hot biscuits. Shining silverware complimented sparkling wine glasses, and an array of favorite recipes steaming in bowls. The empty glowing plates were ready to be filled.

“The table looks beautiful!” Angela gushed.

“We don’t celebrate Thanksgiving in France, but I hear they do in Quebec, Canada,” du Bois said.

“Nor in England, although the Pilgrims were English and shared their bounty with the natives,” I added.

“I grew up in Lander, Wyoming, next to the Shoshone Indian Reservation and not once did we share a dinner with them. It seems a shame now,” Maggie said.

Corina filled our wine glasses, “Compliments of Gus and the Oasis,” she grinned, “Enjoy it. We probably won’t have it next Thanksgiving.”

“Let’s pause a moment and give thanks for our good fortune,” Angela suggested.

“Merci beaucoup,” du Bois whispered.

Corina raised her glass and said, “Here is to good friends around a small table.”

The aromas forced us to dig in. Voices muttered, “Oh, the white meat is so juicy.” “There is just something about sweet potatoes with butter and salt that just can’t be beat.” “I must tell Gus the wine is delicious.” “I just love the tartness of cranberries.” Soon, the only sounds were forks and knives tapping plates.

Eventually, I pushed my chair away from the table saying, “I am so full.” From the groans around the table, I presumed it was the consensus. Corina stood, picked up little Julius from his crib and again sat at the table. He gazed in wonder at our group and all the interesting objects on the table. He reached for the mashed potatoes. Corina put some on her finger and let him suck on it.

“You sure are cute,” she cooed looking at me.

“Are you referring to me or the baby?”

She kicked my leg under the table and said, “You silly. He’ll be handsome too, in time.” Then she looked at her friends at the table, “Things have changed since our last Thanksgiving,” Corina lamented. We nodded at the obvious statement. “But I’m so happy we have new members.” She smiled at the baby and winked at Charlie. She continued with, “Anthony, I hope you remain in Steamboat.”

“I have considered leaving, but I don’t have a job secured yet. I have reasons to stay,” he inadvertently glanced briefly at Angela from the corner of his eye and added, “My friends.”

Then the door opened, and JJ walked in.

Corina screeched heatedly, “What are you doing here? This dinner is for friends. You are not welcome here!”

Charlie stood, hair raised on his back and growled.

“Where’s your private dick? Did you invite him too?” Maggie snarled.

“He can’t afford him,” Corina mocked.

“Doesn’t matter. I have all the information I need. Two lesbians, presumed predators of children, defying the laws of nature, an adulterous couple, easily convicted and a handsome French ambulance driver, a deserter? Did you enjoy the book club meeting? One wonders why he isn’t still at the front. I will prosecute and all of you will be in jail. I will have the child and his inheritance.”

Charlie barked furiously, seventy-five pounds prepared to attack and slowly stalked toward JJ, who reached into his pocket. Du Bois and I grabbed empty wine bottles and sprung to Charlie’s defense.

“You heard the lady. You’re not welcome here,” du Bois shouted.

“You’re a drunken coward. Go,” I hissed.

“I’ll have my day. You just wait and see. You’ll rot in prison,” he hissed back and slammed the door behind him.

Charlie jumped at the window barking angrily, little Julius cried, and Corina held him tightly in defiance saying, “Over my dead body, he’ll get this child.”

Maggie and Angela ran to Corina and wrapped their arms around her and the infant. “He will never have the baby,” the declared together.

And then there was silence, except for the clock ticking and the cat scampering across the room.

“The bastard ruined our dinner,” Corina said.